


You Want It Darker

by laireshi



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Hydra Steve Rogers, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-23 09:52:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13187595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laireshi/pseuds/laireshi
Summary: When Steve kisses him, he tastes like champagne.Or: Hydra Cap has a gift for Tony.





	You Want It Darker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cap Iron Man Community](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Cap+Iron+Man+Community).



> For the prompts: "Hydra!Cap has a Christmas present for Tony" and "Hydra!Cap gets a dirty bad wrong Christmas present".
> 
> Thanks to Comicsohwhyohwhy for betaing :)

Tony’s left wrist is broken.

The pain is dull by now, the bone set; he’s got a cast and he’s wearing an arm-sling. The Hydra agent responsible has been _dealt_ with, as Steve informed him in an icy voice, his eyes blazing with fury.

Really, if the world wasn’t ending around them, if Steve weren’t mind-controlled or brain-washed or whatever the hell that was, if Tony didn’t see Vegas destroyed, all of this would seem funny.

Steve says he’s Hydra Supreme; Steve says he’s evil; Steve says he’s a different man than Tony’s known and loved all his life. Steve says he wants Tony to build weapons.

Steve never tortures Tony himself, and for all the pain, Tony knows the order is _no lasting damage_.

Sometimes Tony looks at him and wonders, _what if I’m wrong? What if Steve’s gone?_ _What if it’s just this monster left_?

But he knows he can’t let himself think like this. Steve _can_ be saved, and right now, it’s up to Tony. Except Tony’s exhausted and aching and thinking of his Steve hurts when he sees this man with Steve’s face ordering murder; all for the glory of Hydra.

Rick Jones is dead. Tony doesn’t know why he isn’t.

( _He loved you. He loved you and he admired you, even when you fought._ But this must be a lie. Tony will _shatter_ if it isn’t.)

Tony tries to clear his head. He looks at Steve, sitting on the other side of the table set just for the two of them. He’s got his Captain America uniform on, the one that Tony designed in what feels like a different life; when he’d taken close measurements of Steve and missed that his best friend wasn’t quite himself anymore.

“Can you eat like that?” Steve points at Tony’s wrist.

“Yes,” Tony answers immediately. 

“It’s your main hand,” Steve says.

“Oh, you care?” Tony snaps. 

Steve shrugs languidly. “It’s Christmas,” he says.

“Are you expecting a gift?” Tony asks sharply. “I won’t build you weapons, Steve, or did you forget why I became Iron Man?”

Steve smiles at that. He sets his glass down with a loud thunk. Tony’s not sure what he’s drinking—his own glass is mercifully full of apple cider, and it’s not as if anything alcoholic would actually have an effect on Steve. “You didn’t have problems building bombs to destroy another Earth,” he says. “And you think _I’m_ a monster.”

“I never said I’m not one.” Tony fails at keeping his voice even. “I will never work with you.”

“So you keep saying.” Steve tilts his head. “Eat your dessert, at least.”

Tony doesn’t want to eat with Steve; no first plate, and not dessert, and nothing else; he wants to throw the plate in his face and grab the knife to stab the next Hydra agent he sees, but he doesn’t move.

For all that Tony’s almost sure Steve won’t harm him physically, he’s terrified of what he’d do to _someone else_ in retaliation. Tony’s never been good at guilt.

Tony eats the cheesecake with his right hand. “I’m surprised there’s no decorations,” he says. “No time when you’re enslaving the world?”

Steve ignores his jab. “It’s about the people you spend holidays with, is it not?” he asks, almost gently, but his eyes remain cold and cruel.

Tony is not used to this.

Usually it’s veiled threats and coercion, _build for me or else_ ; not . . . whatever Steve’s trying to do now, his eyes never leaving Tony, something predatory, almost lethal about him.

Steve circles the table and offers his hand to Tony.

Tony stands up on his own. 

Steve raises an eyebrow.

He puts his hand on Tony’s healthy arm and leans in. He’s moving slowly, but it takes Tony way too long to realise what’s happening.

When Steve kisses him, he tastes like champagne.

Tony moves back on instinct, but suddenly Steve’s hand is on the back of Tony’s head and he doesn’t let him go. Tony bites him and Steve laughs, kisses Tony again, the taste of alcohol overwhelming him.

It’s not much, just a reminder on Steve’s lips; but god, does he _want_ more.

It’s his truest, worst desire; alcohol and Steve; and usually the thought of Steve helps with the temptation of alcohol.

Right now he’s just as dangerous.

Tony keeps struggling, but Steve’s always been stronger. His lips are soft but insistent and his arms are like manacles around Tony. 

Tony _wants_ to give in.

That’s when Steve lets him go.

Tony wipes at his mouth blindly, spits out, but it’s too late, it’s his own personal nightmare and it’s all too much, and he _wants—_

“No,” Tony says.

“ _No_?” Steve repeats like it’s a joke. “Right, I haven’t given you your gift yet.”

“I don’t want any fucking gift, Steve, I don’t want _anything_ to do with you—”

“Oh, Tony. I wish, just one time, you would stop lying. _I’m going to listen to Steve Rogers_ , didn’t you say?”

Tony tries to hit him.

Steve catches his hand easily; squeezes it so hard for a second Tony’s sure Steve’ll break his other wrist.

“Careful,” Steve whispers. “Follow me.”

Tony swallows. He goes after Steve. He tries not to think. Focus on his steps: one, two, three . . . Breathing: in and out; in and out, one two one two. 

Anything that’s not Steve’s lips tasting like alcohol. 

Anything that’s not _Steve_ who’s not Steve at all.

They cross the room. Steve leads him out, through a dark corridor and into a different room, one Tony hasn’t been to before. There’s a comfortable looking sofa there, a big table, a turned off TV; it’s not a room Tony would envision Steve using for anything.

“Sit down,” Steve says.

Tony doesn’t react.

Steve puts a hand on Tony’s shoulder, his meaning obvious; Tony sits before Steve can make him.

Steve reaches behind the sofa; when he straightens, he’s holding a rectangle box.

“Merry Christmas, Tony,” he says.

Tony wonders; if he doesn’t take it, will Steve hit him? 

He takes the box. He unwraps it slowly. He knows what’s inside.

His hands are shaking by the time he pulls out a bottle of whiskey. It’s good stuff; the kind that Tony liked to pay for. 

He wants to cry.

“Please,” he hears himself say. “Don’t do this.”

Steve looks at him impassively. “I thought you’d appreciate it.”

Tony’s sacrificed his sobriety once, but it wouldn’t be a sacrifice now. There’s nothing to gain here; he’s lost already. 

Tony’s weak. Always has been. But not _that_ weak. He _can’t_ drink.

(Tony’s terrified and he hates himself and he hopes Steve would just kill him, instead.)

Steve touches his cheek, runs his thumb over Tony’s lower lip. 

Tony opens the bottle.

Steve wipes a tear from Tony’s cheek. He didn’t realise he started crying.

“Should I help?” Steve asks, full of sympathy. Tony only allows himself a moment of triumph before he upends the bottle and spills it to the ground.

Steve moves _fast_. He grabs the bottle from Tony’s hand, and almost immediately tips Tony’s head back and presses it to his lips. 

Tony swallows almost before he realises what’s happening.

It’s like drinking poison and an antidote at once. 

He feels like his veins are burning. He wants to vomit it out; he wants to drink more, he—

Steve keeps the bottle tipped up, pouring the alcohol into Tony’s mouth, and Tony swallows, helplessly; he’s got an excuse now, _the Hydra Supreme made him drink_. 

Tony’s vision blurs with more tears, and he keeps swallowing, but some of the whiskey still spills and runs down his chin. He’s a mess. It’s nothing new.

Finally Steve takes the bottle away. 

“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks, kneeling so he’s on level with Tony. 

This can’t be Steve, and Tony _hates him_.

He feels he should react somehow. He feels like nothing really matters anymore.

Steve—but he can’t be Steve, he _can’t_ , Tony was wrong, this isn’t Steve—took away everything from him. Tony’s tired of fighting.

Steve kisses him again.

Tony doesn’t react this time. 

“He loved you,” Steve whispers. “I always wondered why, but you do break so prettily.”

Tony tries to shake his head. 

Steve opens his shirt, uncovering the RT, carefully manoeuvring around Tony’s sling. 

He touches the RT, and Tony _hopes_ he’ll break it.

He pushes Tony to his back, and Tony goes.

He opens Tony’s trousers, pulls them down. Tony thinks he should kick him; he doesn’t. Something is wrong. He hasn’t drunk that much—or has he?

Does it matter?

He should—if it’s not Steve, and it can’t be, then Tony should kill him.

He’s not quite sure what the point is, anymore.

“Exquisite,” Steve says when Tony’s lying naked on the sofa.

He starts undoing his own belt. Tony watches him. The smell of whiskey covers any fear he might feel. 

Steve takes his cock out. He’s got a bottle of lube in his other hand that he must’ve had in his uniform too, and he strokes himself a few times until he’s hard.

Tony used to dream of this.

Steve forces Tony’s legs open, kneels between them. He doesn’t bother preparing Tony as he lines himself up.

Tony closes his eyes tight, as if it could help with the pain, and he can’t keep in a scream as Steve pushes in.

Steve kisses him to silence him, still sliding inside him, Tony’s body no match for his inhuman strength. Tony tries to push him away, and finds out he can’t really move his arms.

Steve waits for a second, buried in Tony. “He’s always wanted this,” he says.

Tony thinks that he could, at least, stop lying. He could give Tony that little, if he’s taking everything else.

Steve starts moving, then, quick, sharp thrusts, rocking Tony’s body into the sofa. 

Tears are sliding down Tony’s face. Is this all he’s good for? 

It hurts and it’s brutal and Tony’s dimly aware something’s not quite right with the way he can’t move, and he can’t think, he can’t think of anything but _this is Steve doing it to him_. 

(Steve is gone and Tony hadn’t noticed and it’s all his fault.)

Steve’s movements go erratic. Tony doesn’t open his eyes; he doesn’t want to see Steve’s face, doesn’t want to see Steve’s body—but Steve of course didn’t even undress completely.

He just wanted to use Tony.

Steve comes inside him. He doesn’t for a moment rest his body weight on Tony, fucking _considerate_. 

Tony can’t stop a sob as Steve finally slides out of him, and he wants to cross his legs but Steve’s still sitting between his knees and Tony’s control of his own body is still weak at best. He thinks it wasn’t just alcohol Steve made him drink.

He wonders how he’ll feel when he sobers up completely.

He doesn’t want to sober up.

Steve gets up. 

“He’d really love you now,” he says, and then he just walks out, leaving Tony naked and dirty; alone, with a bottle of alcohol and nothing else to lose.


End file.
